


Blowjob While Hitchhiking

by betts



Series: Kinkmeme Fills [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blackmail, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, New Zealand, Public Sex, Road Head, Unhealthy Relationships, WTFfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 21:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17650364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: For the prompt: Clarke has been walking for days. She can't take anymore, so she starts holding her thumb out like in they do in the films. Bellamy pulls up and offers her a ride in exchange for sucking his dick (bonus points if it's while he's driving).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I adapted the title and overall what-the-fuckery from Denis Johnson's "Car Crash While Hitchhiking," which is a far better story than this. 
> 
> It goes without saying that I do not at all condone anything that happens in this fic, including hitchhiking, which, although nothing at all bad happened to me when I used to do it, is still a very dangerous enterprise.
> 
> This is an incredibly difficult fic to tag for from a warning perspective. That said, I've put a synopsis in the end note. If you think you need warned, I highly recommend reading the end note first and deciding if this fic is for you.

 

In all three months Clarke has been hitchhiking around New Zealand, she’s never been so desperate. The sun is setting over the hills and the temperature is dropping rapidly. She’s stranded on 25, somewhere, she thinks, near Whitianga. Normally she would break out her tent and sleep on the side of the road, but tonight it’ll be too cold. She’s out of food, too. Her emergency cell phone has no signal. She can’t believe how stupid she’s been — complacent, really. Over-confident. Everywhere she’s gone, she’s found a ride, a good, kind person with a boot that could fit her backpack, a few words to say about the dangers of hitchhiking, and more than a few questions about the gun problem in America. She’s been doing this three months now, day and night, non-stop, and not once has she been in this predicament. Then again, she’s never been this far south on the north island, and even though she’d been warned, she forgot about the shift in temperature. At home, it's probably blazing.  
  
The landscape is beautiful, but she can’t enjoy it, can only stare down the dead center of the winding road with her thumb out, heading in the general direction of Whitianga, where there’s a nice warm hostel calling her name. She hasn’t seen a single car in over an hour. She should have stayed in Auckland, where there are hostels and internet and flat whites abound. She could have found a WWOOF gig online and gone there directly on a bus or charter flight, not taken her chances in the great wide open.   
  
Her backpack is chafing her hips. Her lips are chapped. She’s thirsty. She’s hungry. It occurs to her for the first time that what she’s doing might actually kill her. There’s no way to whip her credit card out and call her mom to save the day.   
  
She stops, lowers her thumb, and realizes: In all her travels, this is the first time she’s been truly afraid.   
  
Before she can grasp onto the fear, a noisy SUV flies past her. She runs after it using the last of her energy, jogging in the dead center of the road, waving her arms wildly.  
  
“Please!” she shouts, even though she knows the driver can’t hear. And quietly, to herself as she slows to a halt, “Please stop.”  
  
And it does. It’s almost a half-kilometer away, but Clarke jogs to it, fifty kilo pack on her back, heart hammering and out of breath. She thinks she might pass out. Attached to the back of the truck is a motorboat with the words HAPPY FEET painted in blue bubble letters on the side.  
  
The driver rolls down his window as Clarke approaches. He’s young-ish, not a decade older than her. Messy hair. Sharp eyes. The smell of weed wafts out of the cab. He’d be a good-looking guy if not for his scowl and the way his eyes flick down to her chest. That alone would normally be enough for her to say thanks-no-thanks, but beggars can’t be choosers.   
  
“Where you headed, sweetheart?” he asks.  
  
She should be irked by “sweetheart” but she’s too busy being thrown by his accent.   
  
“You’re American,” she says.  
  
“Born and raised.”  
  
She has a methodology down. Normally she asks the driver where they’re headed first, so she doesn’t have to reveal her destination. But she’s too tired, too surprised, too off her game to play by her usual rules.   
  
“Whitianga,” she says. “Really, anywhere warm I can sleep for a night.”  
  
The way he smiles at her then feels like someone dropped a bucket of ice over her head. She’s shown so many of her cards. She can’t imagine the expression on her face, what she looks like. The last people who picked her up, Monty and Harper, a Croatian couple on their honeymoon, told her about a hitchhiker who was murdered on the south island. And the woman before that, Luna, a shop owner in Rotorua, told her she makes it a habit to pick up every female hitchhiker she sees in order to warn them against it. Clarke knew the dangers. She thought they didn’t apply to her.  
  
“I’ll tell you what,” he says casually, a hand falling between his legs. She refuses to trail her eyes down to confirm her suspicions. “Suck my cock and I’ll take you as far as Kaimarama.”  
  
“There’s nothing in Kaimarama.”  
  
“Then I guess you’ll have to come home with me.”  
  
“And then what?”

In any other situation, she might find his smile flirty and disarming. She imagines approaching him at a bar, excited to find another American abroad, assuming the best of him. She assumes the best of everyone. No one has ever been cruel to her.  
  
“I think you know what, honey.”  
  
“You’re disgusting.”  
  
He puts the SUV in drive and hits the gas. She gasps and jumps back, nearly toppling over with the inertia of the weight on her back, but quickly rights herself and chases after him. “Stop! Stop! Please!”  
  
He does, only a couple yards away. When she reaches his window again, she says, “Give me water, good food, and a comfortable place to sleep tonight, and I’ll blow you now and fuck you later, after I’ve eaten and cleaned up.”  
  
He smiles again like he won a battle, and kicks his thumb over his shoulder. “Toss your stuff in the boot and get in.”  
  
She circles around the SUV and opens the back door, where a big excited mutt starts wagging its tail and trying to hop out and greet her. The dog looks like a cross between a German Shepherd and some kind of terrier. The man whistles between his teeth and says, “Boy, get back here.” The dog obediently steps back to allow Clarke room for her backpack.   
  
She climbs into the passenger seat and immediately positions the heating vents onto her. She’s only wearing a light jacket, and her sweat starts to cool uncomfortably over her filth-tightened skin. The man puts the SUV in gear and continues down the road. The dog is panting by her ear.  
  
“Your dog’s name is Boy?” she asks.  
  
“Wasn't my intention to name him. He started coming around, and kept coming around, and by then, well.”  
  
“What are you doing in New Zealand?”  
  
His eyes dart toward her. She’s grateful there are no street lights out here. She can’t bear to look at him and his stupid smile.   
  
“You really want to know that, darling, or are you stalling?”  
  
“Don’t call me darling.”  
  
“What would you rather be called?”  
  
“By you? Nothing.”  
  
He reaches down to his pants and unbuckles his belt, thumbs open his fly. “Okay, Nothing. Ready to put that pretty pink mouth on my cock?”  
  
“You don’t have to be gross about it.”  
  
“Where’s the fun in that?” He pulls his cock out of his pants and she’s grateful once more for the dim twilight, only knows what’s going on by the movement of his hand. Boy yawns and settles in the back seat. “Ready when you are.”  
  
She hesitates.  
  
“I can pull over and drop you off right here if you’d rather,” he says.  
  
“Fine,” she says, and positions her head over his lap, uncomfortably sprawled across the bench seat. His hand comes to the back of her head and she swats it off. He puts it right back. At least he’s not pushing.   
  
She can’t really see his cock but she can smell it, the same musky scent of cocks everywhere. She hasn’t sucked anyone off since she was a teenager. After Lexa, she’d mostly been interested in women. Somehow it offers a pinch of solace to remind herself she doesn’t even like dick.  
  
She jerks his half-hard cock in her fist.  
  
“C’mon, baby, you can do better than that.”  
  
“Don’t call me baby.” She hates that her gut instinct is to meet his challenge. She finds herself thinking back to her last boyfriend Finn and what he liked.   
  
“That’s better,” he says more softly, and strokes the shell of her ear with his thumb.   
  
She places the tip of his cock at her lower lip and gives it an experimental lick. She waits for his reaction, which doesn’t come. In the back seat, Boy huffs a heavy sigh.   
  
His cock is mostly hard now, so she lowers her mouth over it, wraps her lips around her teeth. She expects him to force her head down further until she’s gagging, but he doesn’t, and that infuriates her, that he could be pushing her, hurting her, doing whatever he wants to her, but he’s just sitting there driving, petting her hair like a second dog.  
  
She goes down as far as she can take him, until her nose is touching the zipper of his pants. Finally he reacts — a dirty low laugh she feels in his stomach rather than hears. “Got something to prove, honey? Daddy never treat you nice?”

She bites back the frustrated growl in her throat, and instead starts bobbing her head up and down, her hand with it and a little twist up top. It always drove Finn crazy, but this guy doesn’t seem affected by it, except that his cock is now fully hard. His breath hasn’t even sped up.   
  
After a minute she pops off, hand still working him over. “Are you going to come or not?”  
  
“Not my fault you don’t know how to suck a dick.”  
  
“Then by all means, teach me.” It comes out sarcastically, but she’s surprised how sincerely she means it. Even if none of this is by choice, she still likes being good at things. She didn’t like going to school either, but she still wanted a 4.0.   
  
He guides her head back to his cock. “Not so fast. Take your time. Use a little tongue. There you go, good girl.”  
  
She’s a little breathless when she comes off again. “Don’t call me that.”  
  
“But you earned it,” he says, and even though she can’t see his dumb smile, she can hear it in his words. “You like earning things, don’t you?”  
  
Instead of responding, she continues working his cock, up and down, wiggling her tongue a little against him and sucking slightly.  
  
“Meet a lot of girls like you,” he says. “Come out here to get away from easy city living, prove they can make it on their own. Then they come back home and have a line to add to a resume, anecdote for six-figure interviews.”  
  
She sucks him harder, more angrily, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. He’s wrong. She’s never going back to her shitty country to live with her shitty family and work a shitty job.   
  
“Or are you one of those girls out here to write a book? Bet this’ll get a whole chapter. Bet this is the most interesting thing to happen to you in your entire little life.”  
  
She puts her whole self into it now. His words echoing in her head, but she refuses to let them land. Refuses to let him be right.   
  
“Now you’ll always have a story to tell. How’s that feel, to finally know you’re interesting because a bad thing happened to you? That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you came all the way out here for. To live in beauty and face the ugliness of life.”  
  
A tear falls down the bridge of her nose, hovers at the tip, and slides over the back of her knuckles. He cards his fingers through her hair, scratches gently at her scalp.   
  
“Sweet girl,” he says, and now she can hear it, a slight strain in his voice. “Quick study. Thought I could make this last.”  
  
Her jaw is starting to ache, and she’s pulled a muscle in her side, and now the car is stifling hot and her entire body is flushed with heat. The curves in the road are making her motion sick, nausea roiling in her gut. His cock twitches in her mouth, and he lets out a single quick exhale, grips his hair in her fist but still won’t direct her head.   
  
“Almost there, sweetheart.” She can’t tell if he means his orgasm or their destination or both. “Look at you, sucking cock just for a ride one town over.” He’s panting now, body tense. “Put that pretty mouth to use, fuck.” He stills her head and takes in a sharp breath, holds it a beat. His cock pulses in her mouth and she closes her throat against it. The second his grip loosens, she lifts off of him, rolls down her window, and spits his jizz out.   
  
“Fuck you,” she says while wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her voice cracks. Tears dry on her cheeks.   
  
He glances at her as he tucks himself back into his pants. “You will.”


	2. Chapter 2

The drive is long and silent. A red streak over the horizon is all that remains of daylight. Clarke used to get carsick driving over and around the hills, but now she knows to stare at the middle line of the road, her tongue pressed against her upper palate. Her mouth tastes like spunk, and the man driving is humming CCR’s “Midnight Special.” The low tone of his voice and the gentle rocking of the cab is enough to lull her to sleep after a long, long day of walking, but she stays vigilant. No telling what would happen if she falls asleep next to a monster.

“What’s your name?” she asks. Her throat constricts like she might cry again, out of fear or frustration or exhaustion, she’s not sure. Maybe it’s just sadness. Plain old sadness, to be so far away. 

He had pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. The window is opened a crack so he can flick ash out of it. “Bellamy,” he says through a plume of smoke.

She waits a beat. “Don’t you want to know mine?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not worth knowing.”

Clarke wipes away the tear that wells up in her eye before it has a chance to hit her cheek. She hasn't stopped crying since the blowjob.

He glances at her. “Are you crying?”

“No.”

“You’re crying.”

“You’d cry too if you got raped.”

“Sweetheart.” He takes a long pull from the cigarette and blows it out. “The best is yet to come.”

It’s another twenty minutes before they arrive at what can generously be called a shack, settled several kilometers off the road, alongside a wide bay. That explains the boat. In every other direction are empty hills and grazing sheep. A firepit and a single folding chair sit out front. She’s never seen so many stars in her life. 

Bellamy gets out of the SUV and pulls open the back door. Boy jumps out and runs in circles, barking happily. Clarke is about to get her backpack, but Bellamy gets it for her, even carries it over his shoulder as he heads toward the shack. Whenever she picks it up, she needs to set it on the ground, squat down, put both arms in the straps, and buckle it around her waist. Bellamy picks it up effortlessly, doesn’t even bother putting it on both shoulders, just the one, like a school bag.

He whistles sharply, either for Boy or her, she can’t tell. She and Boy follow obediently. 

The shack is the size of a studio apartment. A pile of hand-woven blankets sit in a corner on a raised platform which may or may not be a bed. The ceiling reaches only a couple inches above Bellamy’s head. The kitchen consists of a sink and a hotplate, with a table and two chairs underneath a kerosene lamp, which Bellamy lights with a match. 

She finds herself staring in the far corner for a long moment, unable to comprehend what she sees: a bookshelf, full of old cracked paperbacks. Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. It takes up the most space in the entire room. On top of the shelf tower a few stacks of notebooks, spiral-bound, hard-cover, different shapes and sizes, all warped and frayed at the edges, vaguely water-logged. 

“You don’t have electricity?” she asks.

“Don’t need it.”

“What about plumbing?”

“Got an outhouse out back, and a stall to shower.”

“Where does the water come from?”

“See, there’s this thing called rain —”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Don’t say dumb shit.”

“You expect me to shower in the cold? With no hot water?”

“I don’t expect you to do anything. You want a shower, that’s your option. You want a bath, there’s plenty of water in the bay.” 

She kneels down and opens her pack, gets out her travel towel and toiletries and fresh, warm pajamas. His eyes are on her all the time — she can feel his hard stare, his constant assessment. While she’s gone, he could steal her stuff, come into the shower stall and rape her. At this point, she doesn’t have anything to lose. It’s almost freeing, in a fucked-up way. There’s nothing else to be afraid of. He was right: This is the worst thing that has ever happened to her.

The shower stall is outside, hooked up to a rain drum. She starts shivering before she even gets undressed, can’t imagine what hell she’s about to endure by showering in the cold. If she weren’t so filthy, she could wait until tomorrow, until the morning sun heats up the drum and the weather and water might be warmer, but her skin is itching and she can’t stand her own smell.

The shower works with a pull system. She pulls the rope and the freezing water trickles over her naked body. She screams, knowing only one person can hear her, and he doesn’t care. With shaking hands she washes her hair, soaps up her body, and pulls the cord again to rinse off. It’s the fastest, most ineffective shower she’s ever taken, and by the time she dries off and puts her clothes back on, her fingers, toes, and nose are numb. It’s sick, how quickly she runs back to him, just to be warm again.

In the shack, Bellamy has lit a large space heater, but Clarke dives under the blankets on the bed anyway. He laughs at her. The air smells like fish, and she can hear sizzling from the hot plate. She’s so hungry, and so cold, and so miserable, she thinks she might pass out. And she does, for a moment, or spaces out, or dissociates or something. She's only brought back to the present when her body begins to thaw and she hears the clatter of plates on a table.

“Come eat, or I’ll give your portion to Boy.”

Clarke climbs out of the bed, warm now, dizzy and a little dreary. She takes a seat at the table, where she picks up a large glass of water and chugs it, then refills it with a pitcher, and chugs it again. When her thirst is finally quenched, she digs into her food ravenously — two large fish filets, cod maybe, some kind of sauteed green leaf, a slice of lemon. In the middle of the table sits a basket of rolls and a half-stick of butter. It takes Clarke half a dozen bites to realize the food delicious. Bellamy is still staring at her, but she doesn’t care, can only shovel food into her mouth repeatedly, ignoring her mother’s voice in her head to be a lady, be polite, she’s a guest in someone else’s home.

The home of my rapist, she thinks, and continues shoveling. She could give a shit less if he has a problem with her manners.

When she cleans her plate and sops up the juices with a roll, she asks, “Is there more?”

“There will be in the morning.”

She makes a frustrated noise in her throat. “I want more.”

“You seem like the kind of person who always asks for more than she’s offered.”

“Look who’s talking.”

Bellamy’s hand comes to rest on top of hers across the small table. His thumb brushes over her skin gently. “I’m the kind of man who takes what he wants.”

She jerks her hand away. The ghost of his touch hovers over her. She doesn’t want him, she tells herself, and pushes down the disgusting thrill of being looked at the way he’s been looking at her, the way she’d looked at the meal placed in front of her just moments ago.

He leans all the way back in his chair until it tilts back on two legs. “You got your ride, your shower, your good food, and a warm place to sleep for the night. I got part one of the deal, but not part two.”

“I’m not going to make this easy for you.”

He smiles at her, just with his lips, dark eyes cast low. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

She thought he would get right to it, but instead he clears the dishes and washes them, even the plate he’d put down for Boy. He wipes out the cast iron skillet and sets it back on the hot plate. He cleans the entire place meticulously, until it’s exactly how it was when they first walked in. Clarke takes the time to read through the titles on the book shelf. Nabokov, Baldwin, Borges, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Joyce, Woolf, Hemingway, Faulkner, Shakespeare, and a few bizarre commercial titles, Dan Brown and Stephen King. The newest looking book is still from over a decade ago. It’s a better collection than all the take-a-book, leave-a-book piles in every hostel she’s been to. For a second she lets herself imagine that she really did meet him at a bar in Whitianga, and they hit it off, and he was sweet to her and asked to take her home with him. She imagines falling in love with this simple place, and the simple life he leads here. Books and ocean and a good food and a dog and infinite sky. This was the kind of life she came here for. Knowing a man like him, a monster, has found it, the life she’s always wanted — 

He comes up behind her and runs a hand over her stomach, underneath her shirt, presses his lips to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She lets out a small, surprised noise. He swipes her damp hair across her other shoulder and peppers her neck with kisses, dips his hand into her pajama pants. She shoves it away, so he wraps an arm around her, gripping her wrist, pinning her. He slides his other hand into her pants again, and this time she has no way of shoving him off of her, so she tries to thrash, but it’s no use. His finger finds her cunt, and by the dark laugh in her ear and the ease with which he strokes her, she assumes she’s already wet for him.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, sweet girl,” he whispers, nipping at the shell of her ear, circling her clit with one finger. “You’re gonna forget this wasn’t your choice.” He slides two fingers inside of her and she bites down a moan. Nausea roils in her gut — she’s being fingered by a complete stranger in the middle of nowhere, and she can’t fight him off, can’t scream for help. This is really happening. “Warm and fed and fucked. That’s all you really want, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t need any more of his fucking mind games. “Shut up.”

He pulls his hand out and spins her around, grips her hair in his fist and kisses her. His tongue plunges into her mouth, while his free hand reaches up her shirt and cups her breast. He moves so quickly, so confidently, her body reacts to all of it before her mind can scream at her to fight. That voice is getting quieter, exhausted, and if she stops fighting, maybe it won’t take as long, and he’ll let her sleep on his warm bed. Then she’ll be unconscious, and she’ll be able to pretend none of this happened.

She tries not to return his kiss, lets her mouth go slack, but her instincts take over and she finds herself meeting his movements, pressing her tongue against his, making a pained noise as he sucks her lip between his teeth. 

“That’s right, honey,” he says, “let yourself enjoy it. Let me take care of you.” He takes her by the hips and pushes her toward the bed. Her thighs hit the back of it and he shoves her down. She immediately sinks into the comfortable softness of the mattress and closes her eyes. She can’t bring herself to struggle against the tug she feels at her pants, the cool air of her sudden nudity. In the back of her head, she’s grateful she took a shower. Even now, if she’d been filthy, she would have felt humiliated. 

Next he hikes her shirt up to her armpits. She's naked now except for her socks and shirt.

“God, look at you,” he says, eyes roving up and down her body. “You’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m not a thing,” she replies weakly. 

He falls to his knees and lifts one of her legs over his shoulder, kisses her inner thigh. “You’re Nothing, right,” he says smugly.

Then he has her legs spread and his tongue is pressed against her cunt. She can already tell he’s good at it, that he’s going to take his time with her. This could be so easy if he just bent her over and fucked her and went to sleep, but no, he wants to make her come. 

She tries to squeeze his head with her thighs, kick a little, but he takes her by the back of the knees and wrenches her open, dives his tongue so far into her pussy that her mind goes blank and she cries out. Despite her attempts at relaxing, not reacting to the way he sucks and licks at her clit, fucks her with two fingers, her body betrays her, and she comes hard, shouting more loudly than she’s ever been allowed to before. She can feel him smiling into her cunt, and when she finally comes down, she braces herself for his cock. 

“You’re not done,” he says, and goes back to what he was doing, only now she’s oversensitive, trying to get away from his mouth, but he grips her hips and brings her closer to him. Another orgasm rips through her, and before that one has ended, a second builds, and a third. No one has ever given her multiples before. She can’t even do it for herself. Her ears ring with her own shrill cries; her fists are gripping his hair and dragging him further into her cunt, and just when she thinks she’s finally done and spent, he shoves three fingers into her pussy and fucks her hard and fast, and she comes again, nearly delirious, shouting — and hating herself for it — his name.

“Good girl,” he says, breathless, climbing back up her body. He kisses her with his cunt-coated mouth and she doesn’t have enough brain power to do anything other than let him. He pulls away to take off his shirt and unbuckle his belt. His pants drop and he kicks them off.

She can see his cock in the light of the kerosene lamp. It’s bigger than it had felt in her mouth and hand. 

“A condom, please,” she says, voice small and unconvincing.

He jerks his cock in his fist. “No.”

“I’m not on the pill.”

“Too bad.”

“I have STDs.”

“No you don’t.” He presses the tip of his cock to her entrance and she climbs further back on the bed. “You lost your virginity to your high school boyfriend, who turned out to be an asshole. Then you had one serious relationship that lasted a few years, and you’ve probably had two, maybe three, one-night stands.”

He's right. She’s going to puke. Maybe then he won’t want to fuck her. “How did you —”

“I know you, sweetheart.” He crawls onto the bed, between her legs. He dips down and catches her lips with his. “There’s nothing special about you.” 

His words hurt almost as much as the fast, smooth sinking of his bare cock into her cunt. She hasn't felt this stretched open since she lost her virginity, like she's breaking in half.

“Please, please don’t come in me,” she says. “I don’t want to get pregnant.”

He pulls out a couple inches and slams back in. “Not my problem.”

Like going down on her, she wants to remain placid and lifeless, but he really does know her, knows all the spots that make her cry out. She scrapes her fingernails down his back, moans in a way no one has ever made her moan before. He pulls out and flips her onto her knees, pounds into her from behind. If he built this shack himself, he built it sturdy. The platform doesn’t even creak.

He pulls her up against his chest, held firmly in place, and wraps a hand around her front to finger her clit again. Based on the slipping rhythm of his movements, he’s close. 

“Please,” she pants, "please," though she no longer knows what she’s begging for. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” he says against her neck. “Let go for me. Give it up.”

She won’t. Tears are streaming down her face. She shakes her head, but her body is seeking release. His fingers are only teasing her now. She needs to come but he won’t let her, eases off the second she starts to tense up. 

“Beg me,” he says. “Beg me to come inside you.”

“No.” She’s outright crying now, sobbing in frustration and need and the unfairness of it all. “Don’t make me.”

“You want to come don’t you? I want to hear you say it. I want you to beg.”

He slows down to an agonizing pace, fucking into her shallowly, an arm around her neck to keep her pressed against his back, the other flicking her clit. 

A sob escapes her throat. “Please,” she cries. “Please come in me. I need it. Please.”

He presses down on her clit, circles it the exact way he did that gave her multiples, and she flies over the edge, screaming and crying, falling back down on her hands. He pounds into her harder than she’s ever been fucked, then stills. His cock pulses as he spills inside her, but he doesn’t make a sound. Won’t give her the satisfaction even of his pleasure. 

When he pulls out, she falls onto her side and curls into a ball, weeps in earnest. If he notices, he doesn’t care. She can hear the sink running, and a moment later, he’s returned with a glass of water. He pulls her to sitting and puts the glass to her lips, tips it back. His other hand is resting on the back of her neck. 

“Good girl, there you go.”

When the water is gone, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. He sets the glass down and guides her onto her back with a gentle hand to her shoulder, spreads open her legs, and wipes her clean with a warm wet cloth. He even inspects her, poking and prodding, as if making sure he didn’t leave any marks.

She can’t say anything, only stare as he touches her like a car that needs fixed. Then he twists off the kerosene lamp. For a second she expects him to tell her to sleep on the floor with the dog, but he only climbs into bed beside her, covers the both of them with blankets, and holds her to his chest. 

“Deal is done,” he says. “Rest now.”


	3. Chapter 3

She awakens the next morning warm and comfortable, but the second she moves, her entire body resists, muscle pain washing over her. She groans and rolls over, stares outside the little window at the brilliant pink sun bleeding into the sky over the bay. For a second, like last night, she lets herself believe this is her life, waking up each morning surrounded by beauty and books, an hour’s drive away from civilization.  
  
She sits up. Bellamy and Boy are both gone. The shack smells like bacon. She climbs gracelessly down from the platform and over to the table, where breakfast is waiting for her under a cloche. She lifts it to find two fried eggs, bacon, and toast, a mug of black sludge that might be coffee. It’s so bizarrely American it makes her homesick.   
  
She eats only slightly slower than the night before, watching the sunrise like she would a television. When she’s finished, she cleans the kitchen the way she’d seen him do it the night before, dishes dried and stacked neatly in their cupboard, fork in a little cup of cutlery by the sink. Then she gets dressed — multiple layers today, who knows what the weather will be — and goes outside, where the SUV is gone.   
  
She should be worried. Afraid. Concerned, at the very least. She isn’t. He’ll come back for her. She knows he will. She ventures to the outhouse, which isn’t nearly as bad as she’d anticipated. When she returns, she picks out a book, considers reading through his notebooks but then decides against it — what if he’s done this to other girls? What if he’s written about it? A horrible spark of jealousy flares in her gut, that she distorts instead into disgust. She lifts the first page of the top one, and finds she can’t read his writing anyway. It’s tiny and slanted and fills up the entire page in a massive block of text. It reminds her of him, in a way — a big ugly man in a small beautiful place. In the end, she picks the Dan Brown and feels shitty and basic about it, but whatever.   
  
She settles in the folding chair by the firepit and wonders briefly if she’s pregnant. A bubble of laughter escapes her when she thinks darkly, a baby would be the ultimate souvenir.   
  
A couple hours later, Bellamy returns home. She can hear the noisy V8 from a kilometer away. He gets out of the cab and Boy follows. He has a paper grocery bag in hand, stops beside her, and throws a box of Plan B onto her lap.   
  
“Sorry,” he says.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“That was dumb. I shouldn’t have come in you.”  
  
“You blackmail a desperate hitchhiker into blowing you, then you rape her, and you’re apologizing for coming in me?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“You’re a monster.”  
  
He shrugs. In the light of day he seems less threatening. “Never said I wasn’t.”  
  
“You left without me.”  
  
“Had to run an errand.”  
  
“You could have dropped me off in town.”  
  
“I wasn’t heading to Whitianga.”  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I would go anywhere to get away from you.”  
  
“You were sleeping.”  
  
“I would have woken up.”  
  
He shifts the bag to his other hip. “I’m going to head out on the water to catch dinner. You want to come?”  
  
“Do I have a choice?”  
  
“Of course —” He stops, purses his lips. “Yeah, you have a choice.”  
  
She assesses him. He won’t meet her eyes. “Fine.”

They take Happy Feet and go out on the bay. She brought her book and Bellamy brought fishing supplies and Boy is whining and barking on the shore.  
  
They go so far out, she can no longer see Boy, or any land at all. Only still water and clear sky. It’s colder out here, and her jacket isn’t heavy enough. She curls around herself.  
  
“You cold?” he asks as he baits a hook with something that looks squirmy and alive, but not for long.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
He slots the pole into a groove in the boat, takes off his jacket, and hands it to her. When she doesn’t move to take it, he sighs and stands and throws it over her shoulders.  
  
“I think you’re lonely,” she says.  
  
He picks up the pole again. “I’m not lonely.”  
  
“You live in rural New Zealand in a building that would blow away in a light storm. You don’t have a phone or electricity or running water. Your only company is a dog you pretend you don’t even want, and a stack of notebooks filled with illegible scrawl.” When only his jaw clenches in reply, she adds, “You’re American too, but you don’t have a real job, so you’re not a skilled migrant worker, which means you’re not educated. You’re probably not even here legally. You came on a tourist visa and never left. You’re no better than me. In fact, you’re worse, because I plan to leave at some point, but you, you’re trapped.”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Americans out of America are always running from something. So what’d you do? Are you a rapist back home, too?”  
  
“I’m not a rapist.”  
  
“You literally are.”  
  
“We made a deal.”  
  
“And yet I’m still here.”  
  
“I’ll take you back as soon as we’re done here.”  
  
“Yeah? And how will you feel about that?”  
  
He pretends to do something important-looking with a pocket knife and a net, but after a moment, she realizes he’s just keeping his hands busy so he can ignore her.  
  
“Picking up a pretty hitchhiker on the side of the road and forcing her to have sex with you,” she says. “I bet I’m the most interesting thing to ever happen to you. And if I’m not, I’m the only thing you’ve had control over in a long, long time.”  
  
“I’ll push you off this fucking boat.”  
  
She leans in and stares him in the eye. “I dare you.”  
  
After a long, tense moment, he glances away first. She takes his shirt in her fist and drags him into her, kisses him with the same ferocity as last night. The boat lifts over a wave, but they stay locked together, kiss so rough she thinks she tastes blood, but doesn’t know whose.   
  
When finally he pulls away, her hair still clutched in his hands, he says, “I can’t stand you.”  
  
“You don’t want me to leave.”  
  
He drags her back into him. The boat tips slightly in one direction and then the other. A fish is pulling at the pole. Bellamy ignores it. Clarke’s cunt is throbbing thinking of his mouth on her again; her heart pounds at the thought of staying, voluntarily, living for a few days or weeks or months or even years with her monster, wanting and needing nothing but food and sex and sleep.   
  
“I bought condoms,” he says, gasping, forehead pressed against hers. “No more deals. If you don’t want me, I won’t touch you.”  
  
“And when I want to leave, you’ll let me go.”  
  
He nods. “But you won’t. I know you. You won’t.”  
  
He presses his lips to hers again. Seagulls cry overhead. In the distance, Boy continues to bark. The boat rocks over the waves, and pushes them further out into the sea.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for an epilogue. I think last chapter ended the fic at a decent point, but I promised I'd add to it, so here you go!

He let her go after a week, dropped her off at a hostel in Whitianga. By the time they parted ways, she wasn’t Nothing anymore. She was Clarke Griffin, Ivy League drop-out, daughter of a doctor and rocket scientist, spoiled fucking brat. The girl who could get him hard with just a look, who could ride his face until he thought his jaw would fall off, who could read him like a goddamn book. And now she’s gone. She’d started as a thing for him to break, but by the end, she was the one holding him together.

It’s been six months and he still thinks about her every day. Every time he goes out on the boat, climbs into the SUV, washes the dishes, falls asleep. It all reminds him of her, and she reminds him of how pathetic he is, everything and everyone he’s running from.

In the dead of summer, he heads up to Whitianga for a food run. Boy wasn’t around this morning, so he came by himself, and decides to grab a beer before heading back. It’s good, being around people, even if he doesn’t deserve to be in the company of them, even if he doesn’t allow himself to interact. After all the things he’s done, the people he's killed, he tries not to inflict himself on anyone else.

The bar is an English-style pub, obnoxious as it is, and he takes a seat at the end, away from the crowd. The bartender comes by and he orders a Guinness, watches the football/soccer game on TV. A couple women at the other side of the bar are making eyes at him. He ignores them. A flash of an image darts through his head, Clarke on her hands and knees, screaming so loud his ears rang, pussy clenching around him while he barely hung on.

When she left, he pulled her backpack out of the boot and helped lift it onto her shoulders, and she turned around and said, “You were right. You’re the worst thing to ever happen to me.” Then she dragged him in by the shirt and kissed him, a ferocious, painful thing, then shoved him away and left. Out of all the things he regrets, telling her what he was running from is the biggest, and letting her go is pretty far up there too, tied with all the ghosts that keep him up at night.

They fucked every morning and caught dinner every afternoon, got high and watched the sunset together, the stars. They went on walks. He read aloud to her. She pillowed her head in his lap and watched the clouds pass over the water. He taught her how to gut a fish, bait a hook, throw a net. She was the quickest study he’d ever met.

He finishes his first pint and is feeling just sorry enough to order a second. He doesn’t drink much, so halfway through he starts getting a little tipsy, figures he can’t navigate the dark roads with a compromised mind, and has just paid his tab when he hears, “Bellamy Blake,” right at his ear.

He turns around and there she is, looking healthy and blonde and pink-cheeked, wavering on her feet. She’s wearing a white shirt and black skirt, a uniform of some kind.

“Was hoping I’d find you around here,” she says.

He thinks he must be hallucinating. He’s too stunned to speak.

“I stayed. Asked around about you. Hot American boy, boat, dog. Pure evil. No one knew who you were.”

“You left,” he finally manages. “You wanted to leave.”

Her exact words had been, _You're a monster and I hate you._

She wrinkles her nose. “Kinda hoping you’d kidnap me.” When she seems to realize people might overhear, she leans in closer and whispers, “Force me to live with you in your pathetic little shack, rape me every night.”

“It’s not rape if you want it,” he says.

She shrugs. “We can pretend.” She steps closer, into the V of his legs, runs her fingers through his hair. She smells like whiskey. Just being this close gets him hard. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Should have gone home months ago but I couldn’t stand the thought of it, leaving this country without you. Without seeing you again.”

“Come home with me, baby.” He tries to keep the desperation out of his voice, but he can’t, not when he’s as desperate as he is. “Let me take care of you.”

“Make me.”

He doesn’t need told twice. He takes her out into the warm summer evening and slams her against the side of his SUV, smashes his mouth against hers. He rips open her shirt, buttons flying, yanks down her bra, tweaks her nipples so hard she yelps. They’re in broad view of the rowdy back patio. A couple drunk guys are cheering them on. He lifts his skirt and shoves his hand into her panties, sinks his fingers into her soft wet cunt.

“Soaked for me already, sweetheart,” he says. “You miss my cock?”

“I miss your everything.”

“Want me to fuck you in front of all these people, show them who owns you?”

She nods. They might get arrested, and if that happens, he’ll definitely get deported, and once he's back in the states, arrested, tried, and put on death row, but it’ll be worth it just to get inside her again. He takes her by the hip and spins her around, presses her hard against the passenger door, and pulls down her panties. The rowdy guys are shouting at him to fuck her. Bellamy is nothing if not a crowd pleaser, so he unzips his fly and pulls his cock out and sinks it into her. She screams, and he claps a hand over her mouth.

“Gonna be a good girl for me?” he says in her ear. “Gonna shut that filthy fucking mouth of yours?”

She nods, and he lets her go. He wants to make this last forever, but he won’t be able to, not with the threat of someone calling the cops, not with her tight cunt fluttering around his cock, not with whatever disgusting thing lives in his heart for her.

She comes without him even touching her clit, whole body shuddering. He holds her up by the hips, her knees giving out, and pounds into her shallow and fast, thinks about that first time, the heady rush of impregnating a stupid empty bimbo at the side of the road, making her weep. He comes hard, saying something about how he’ll never let her go again, how she can stay here with him forever. He's nearly delirious, wondering if he passed out drunk and he’s just imagining this.

He pulls out and steps aside so the boys can get a show, his come dripping out of her pussy, sliding down the insides of her thighs. He whispers, “How does it feel, being all mine again?”

“Right,” she says.

They grab her backpack from a nearby hostel. She falls asleep on the ride home, and when they arrive, he picks her up and brings her inside, lays her on the bed and undresses her. Pretty girl, all his. He wakes her up by fucking her again, still wet with his come. This time it’s easy and slow, and she just lies there and takes it, little whimpers in her throat that grow into low moans. He pulls out and comes on her stomach this time, her tits, her sleepy drunk face, and takes an unspeakable amount of pleasure in cleaning her up, holding her naked body close while she relaxes in his arms.

“I hate you,” she says.

“I know.”

“Everything pales in comparison to — this. I tried finding my love of the road again, but I kept thinking about you. I was more homesick for this place than my own home.”

“I missed you too.”

She opens her eyes and looks at him. “I’m serious. Don’t let me leave again.”

When he'd told her the life he used to lead back home, that he was given jobs and did them without question, bloody brutal deeds — knives, baseball bats, any heavy object in arm's reach, only way he knew to keep food on the table — she looked at him the way he felt, a mirror of his self-perception. It should have hurt, but it was freeing, to tell someone, to allow himself to be judged by her. 

“Consider yourself kidnapped,” he says.

Outside, Boy barks. Cool night air breathes through the open windows. The ocean beats rhythmically against the shore, and Bellamy tugs the blanket over her shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> Synopsis: asshole!Bellamy picks up hitchhiker!Clarke and they make a deal that Clarke will blow him and fuck him if he gives her a ride, food, and lodging for the night. She gives him road head and he speculates cruelly about her life and makes her cry. They get to his shack where he fucks her, and she begs him to use a condom, but he refuses. During this, she's conflicted about whether or not she wants him. While he's fucking her, he tells her he won't let her come again if she doesn't beg him to come inside her, which she does. He offers her some aftercare. The next morning, he apologizes and gives her Plan B. Then, he takes her out on the water, and she speculates cruelly about him, and agrees to voluntarily stay with him. The final chapter picks up six months later, after they've parted and found each other again.
> 
> I hitchhiked around New Zealand for a while. Nothing like this happened, but I did travel to Whitianga in an SUV, squeezed between two guys from Thailand and a dog, towing a boat called Happy Feet (I can't remember if the driver's name was Happy, or if I never got his name and just started calling him Happy in my head), and we did stop at a cabin in the middle of nowhere a ways off the main drag for reasons Happy never explained, but strongly encouraged I occupy myself by taking many pictures, which I did.
> 
> I'm bettsfic on twitter, tumblr, and dw.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Behold, the Grave of a Wicked Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18457202) by [that_this_will_do](https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_this_will_do/pseuds/that_this_will_do)




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